If you’re reading this, HIDE NOW.

If you’re reading this, HIDE NOW.

That was the first text message I got that morning.

It came from an unknown number. No name. No emoji. No follow-up. Just those five words, all caps, like the sender was afraid of being overheard even through a phone.

For a few seconds, I sat up in bed, staring at the screen while my alarm continued to chirp beside me. The early light filtering through my blinds gave my room its usual harmless look: laundry on the chair, posters peeling at the corners, my backpack slumped against the wall. Everything normal. Everything safe.

I checked the time. 6:14 a.m.

I laughed—one sharp breath through my nose. A prank. Spam. Someone messing with me. My friends thought it was funny to send creepy stuff sometimes, especially before exams.

Still, my thumb hovered over the keyboard longer than it should have.

Who is this? I typed.

The message showed as delivered. No response.

I tossed the phone onto my bed and stood up, stretching. I had school. A math test. A bus to catch. The real world didn’t pause for anonymous texts.

As I brushed my teeth, I kept glancing at my reflection, half-expecting to see something different. Someone standing behind me. A shadow that didn’t belong to me.

Nothing.

By the time I was dressed, the message had faded into the background noise of my mind—unsettling, but distant. I grabbed my phone again as I headed downstairs.

Another message had come in.

They know you saw the first one.

My stomach dropped so suddenly it felt like I’d missed a step on the stairs.

“Mom?” I called, my voice cracking in a way I didn’t like.

“In the kitchen,” she answered, cheerful, unaware.

I stood frozen halfway down the stairs, staring at the screen. My phone buzzed again.

You have three minutes.

“Three minutes for what?” I whispered.

I typed again, hands shaking now. Who are they?

The response came instantly.

Not who. What.

A chill crept up my arms. I suddenly became aware of every sound in the house: the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the clock, my mom humming softly to herself.

I went into the kitchen, trying to act normal. My mom slid a plate of toast toward me.

“You look pale,” she said. “Did you sleep?”

“Yeah,” I lied.

My phone buzzed on the counter.

Two minutes.

I swallowed hard. “Mom… did you get any weird messages this morning?”

She frowned. “No. Why?”

Another buzz.

They’re closer than you think.

My chest tightened. “I—I think someone’s messing with me.”

My mom sighed, already reaching for her coffee. “Sweetheart, if it’s a prank, ignore it. You’ll miss your bus.”

The phone vibrated again.

One minute.

I felt lightheaded. “Mom, I think we should—”

The lights flickered.

Just once. Quick. Like a blink.

My mom looked up. “Probably the storm last night.”

The phone buzzed again.

Thirty seconds. Closet. Bathroom. Anywhere without windows. Do NOT be seen.

My heart slammed against my ribs. This was too specific. Too urgent.

I grabbed my phone and backed away from the counter. “Mom, please, we need to go somewhere else in the house.”

She stared at me, confused now. “What’s going on?”

The lights flickered again—longer this time.

My phone buzzed.

They’re here.

A sound came from outside.

Not a knock.

Not footsteps.

A low, dragging scrape, like something heavy being pulled across concrete.

My mom turned toward the front door. “Did someone—”

“Don’t open it,” I said, louder than I meant to.

She froze. “What?”

The scrape came again. Closer. Accompanied by something else now—a faint clicking, irregular, like nails tapping out of sync.

My phone buzzed nonstop, messages stacking faster than I could read.

DO NOT LET THEM SEE YOU

THEY MIMIC

HIDE NOW

The doorbell rang.

It wasn’t the cheerful chime we’d always had. It was distorted, buzzing too long, like someone was leaning on it.

“Mom,” I whispered, tears burning my eyes. “Please.”

She took a step back from the door.

The doorbell stopped.

Silence.

Then a voice came from the other side.

“Hello?” it called.

It sounded exactly like my mom.

She gasped. I felt something inside me snap, a cold understanding settling in.

The voice spoke again. “It’s me. I forgot my keys.”

My mom covered her mouth with her hand.

The phone buzzed once more.

That is not her.

The handle on the door slowly began to turn.

I grabbed my mom’s wrist and pulled her toward the hallway. We ran, slipping on the tile, my heart pounding so loud I was sure it could hear us.

Behind us, the front door creaked open.

Footsteps entered the house.

Slow. Careful.

Learning.

We dove into the bathroom and slammed the door, locking it just as something brushed against the hallway wall. I dragged my mom into the bathtub and yanked the shower curtain closed, then turned off the lights.

We huddled there in the dark, barely breathing.

The footsteps moved closer.

The bathroom door handle jiggled.

Then a voice—my voice—spoke softly from just outside.

“I know you’re scared. It’s okay. You can come out now.”

My mom clutched my arm so hard it hurt.

The handle stopped moving.

Silence stretched, heavy and unbearable.

Minutes passed. Or hours. I couldn’t tell.

My phone buzzed faintly in my hand.

Good. Stay still. They lose interest if they can’t confirm you.

I typed with trembling fingers. What are they?

The response came slower this time.

We don’t know. They appear, they copy, they replace. We only know how to survive them.

Another message followed.

You weren’t the first one we warned.

A sudden crash came from the living room—the sound of something being knocked over, followed by that same dragging scrape.

Then footsteps moved toward the back door.

The house fell quiet again.

We stayed hidden until the sun was fully up, until my phone battery dipped into the red, until the fear dulled enough for exhaustion to take over.

Eventually, we heard sirens outside. Neighbors gathering. Someone shouting about a break-in.

The police said there was no sign of forced entry.

They said nothing was missing.

They said maybe someone had just walked into the wrong house.

That night, after everything settled, after my mom finally fell asleep on the couch beside me, I plugged in my phone and scrolled back through the messages.

The number was gone.

Not deleted.

Gone.

No sender. No record. Like it had never existed.

Except for one final message, timestamped hours after the others.

We’ll text again if you survive tomorrow.

I locked my phone and stared at the dark window across the room.

Outside, someone was standing on the sidewalk.

Watching the house.

Smiling with my face.

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